Tis The Season
by Arianna18
Summary: Mark's first Christmas in San Quentin


'**TIS THE SEASON**

_by Arianna_

_For Suzanne, for Christmas_

"Jesus, Skid, don't tell me you're one o' them there bible thumpers!" Big Eddy jeered when he spotted Mark heading down the cement corridor to the Chapel's entrance.

Mark rolled his eyes, like he needed this? But he had an ingratiating grin solidly in place before he turned to look up – and up – at the elephantine bully who was the lifer who pretty much ran the Castle. Slipping into the light-hearted patter of the ever-cheerful and harmless clown, Mark bantered, "Well, you how it is. I'm in the choir and we all have to be there. Special night an' all. And it doesn't hurt to cover the bases, you know?"

Big Eddy snorted and shook his head. "Ain't no God, Skid. I learned that cold, hard fact before I learned to read."

Biting off his doubts that Eddy had ever learned the alphabet, let alone how to string the letters together to form words, Mark just shrugged and gestured toward the Chapel. "Uh, I gotta go. If I'm late, they might make me sing a solo, and we wouldn't want that to happen, believe me."

"You're just doin' this to impress the Parole Board, ain't ya?" Big Eddy pushed, as if what Mark believed was of the utmost importance, which was altogether unnerving. Mark had been inside for nearly six months and he hated the joint, hated everything about it – the lack of privacy, the noise, the crummy food and worse accommodations, the institutional stench. Most of all, he hated being scared all the damned time. There were serious headcases locked in there with him – weirdos who killed for fun – and just thinking about them made him nauseous; not to mention guys who'd murder another guy for a pack of cigarettes. So, he kept his head down and did his best to maintain a low profile – and he sure did his damnedest to stay below the radar of the real players, the inmates who were the ones who really ran the place. God, he sure didn't want or need the kingpin and enforcer to beat all enforcers in the joint noticing him at all – ever.

"Yeah, ya got me," Mark agreed with complete candor, to keep the guy happy, and besides, it was true. "I'm doin' everything I can to score points, man. If that means choir practice, well then, that's what it means."

The behemoth gave Mark a hearty punch on the shoulder that nearly broke his arm, and Mark's grin tightened as he swallowed the grunt of pain; never show weakness and never show fear were the only rules that really mattered in the big house; everything else was negotiable.

"You're okay, Skid," Big Eddy said before lumbering away, his gang of deadly sycophants trailing along behind like a parade of strutting ghouls.

Heaving a silent breath of relief to have escaped Big Eddy's attention with nothing more serious than a bruised arm, Mark hastened into the dim and quiet Chapel. It was his job that night to set out the hymn books and put up the numbers of the songs they'd be singing on the wooden notice board, so those who came to the service could find them easily in the hymnals. Though he had no idea how many of the inmates would show up, he figured that even in this house of hell there would be some who would hope for something better someday, even if that meant in the next life.

If there was a next life.

Sighing unhappily, he gazed at the simple cross behind the equally simple wooden altar. Though he'd been raised as a good Catholic boy, before landing in San Quentin, Mark hadn't been inside a church or chapel since his mother had died. He wanted to believe in the whole Christian bit, he really did, if only because he desperately held onto the cold consolation since her death that his mother was in Heaven, with the angels, and was happy and safe. If there wasn't something out there in the great beyond, if this was all there was, just this existence, as great or as wretched as any individual life might be, then … then what was the point? Why try to live a good life? Why pretend to be more than any other animal that roamed the planet and put its own best interests first, especially when it came to the food chain? If you had the power and strength to take what you wanted, why not take it?

"Well, I'm certainly in a cheerful mood," he muttered to himself, and then straightened respectfully when the music director – a plump, good-humored middle aged man – arrived, followed by the other members of the choir. Looking at them, a motley group of first timers and lifers and guys on their second or third stretch, scruffy in their wrinkled uniforms, tattooed, some bald, one with a Mohawk, slouching along as if life was just too great a burden to bear, Mark thought they were all – himself included – a sorry lot. But, much to everyone's surprise, they'd discovered that the sound they made wasn't half bad; they might not sound like a band of angels, but at least they could harmonize. And, while the religious music wasn't his first choice of entertainment, there was something about singing the carols that felt good, that eased the tightness inside, at least for a while. Not that Mark would ever tell anyone that – they'd think he was a real wuss.

The organist, a sour-faced austere man who looked like he preferred playing at funerals, strode in and, after carefully hanging his coat, took his place without so much as glancing at the rest of them, and flipped through the pages of music. He was a volunteer from a local church, as were the choir director and the pastor. But about the only thing any of them had in common with one another or with the inmates in the choir was that they were all volunteers, only they could go home when the service was over. The prisoners got themselves organized on the two benches assigned to them on the side of the Chapel, across the floor from the pulpit. Shortly after, Reverend Morris, a kind-hearted Afro-American, arrived to conduct the ecumenical service and other inmates began to straggle in, typically filling the back benches first until the whole Chapel was filled, and there was standing room only. Mark wondered how many of them were only there because it might end up as a positive note in their files, and then he chided himself for being so cynical.

The pastor welcomed everyone, his rich, warm baritone easily filling the chapel, before nodding at the choir master, who stood, waved his wand imperiously at them and they shuffled to their feet. The organist began, and they launched into the first song of the special evening service, "O Come All Ye Faithful". Hesitantly, as if not sure whether they should or shouldn't, some of the other inmates who'd come for the service joined in. Given the way they were mumbling the words, Mark wasn't sure whether it was worth putting out the hymn books – he doubted many of the poor guys could read any better than Big Eddy. For sure, he knew very few of them ever exhibited any interest in the books he trundled around on the library cart every day. And given that they didn't seem all that sure of the words, he figured that few of them had spent as much time in church as they had in jail.

When they finished singing, everyone sat down and Reverend Morris read some scripture about Mary and Joseph, and there being no room at the inn. Having heard it all before, Mark wasn't really listening. Slumped back against the wall, he stared up at the cross and thought about other times, other places, other Christmas Eves. There'd been good ones, with his Mom, when he'd still believed in Santa Claus and that Mommy and Daddy would always be there with him; even pretty nice ones after his Dad had taken off, God alone knew where, because his Mom tried so hard to make everything special for him, even if it was just the two of them. Even as a kid, Mark had thought it was stupid to go to all the effort of getting and putting up a little tree, and bringing out all the decorations that his Mom had loved so much – the little crèche, a Santa who stood about a foot and a half high and boomed, 'Ho! Ho! Ho1' when his beard was pulled, a snowglobe of a village in winter and, of course, the stocking she always hung for him on the hook by the door. But he had to admit, it was all, well, nice, and he'd missed it after she was gone. Missed a lot of things. Her most of all.

Since then, some years had been nothing special, just another day, and some had been okay, like the year before when his boss invited the whole crew to Christmas dinner with him and his daughter, Barbara, at their big house. None of them had been really horrible – until now. God, he'd never imagined he'd ever spend Christmas in prison … and he still had next year to look forward to, too, oh joy. As much as he hoped for his mother's sake that there was a Heaven and that she was there, he also hoped that there was an impenetrable curtain between there and this world, so she'd never know where he was. She'd be so upset, so sad, and he couldn't stand imagining that.

When the choir master stood and gave them the signal, they dutifully sang, "Oh Little Town of Bethlehem," followed by a rousing "Joy to the World", as if there was any joy in San Quentin. Yeah, right.

While the pastor preached his sermon, Mark again looked up at the cross and let his mind drift. Moments like this were the only kind of escape he had from the dismal reality of the prison and its inflexible, intrusive routine. From the second he woke up until he closed his eyes at night, he was aware that he was watched. Except for the quiet hour when he could read if he wanted, he always had to be doing something worthy, like working in the machine shop, or exercising in the yard, or engaging in healthy interpersonal interaction in the recreation room, as if playing cards was 'worthy'. He wondered if the guards knew how carefully the prisoners kept track of the bets and who owed whom what. Probably not, since gambling was explicitly against the rules. But then again, how could they not know? Mark figured they just didn't care.

Letting his mind roam, Mark began to plan for his first Christmas back on the outside. He was going to do it up right, with a tree and lights, and all the silly little ornaments. He didn't know who he'd be celebrating with, maybe nobody, but there'd be gifts under that tree anyway, even if he had to wrap up shirts and socks for himself. And he was going to have a stocking, and stuff it with two oranges and the same candy bars his Mom had always given him: Snickers and Three Musketeers. There'd be a tinker toy racing car and a few other little things like that. And he was going to have a great Christmas dinner, with turkey and dressing and gravy and mashed potatoes and all the fixings, including pumpkin pie and ice cream, not the cardboard, lumpy crap that he was pretty sure they'd get tomorrow.

A vague memory flickered through his mind, a line from Scrooge, a movie his mother had loved to watch as part of their annual tradition, something about keeping Christmas as well as any man could. That's what they'd say about him, when he got out. That he kept Christmas as well as any man could. He wasn't sure why he was going to do all that, except that he wanted it to be as different as it was possible to be from being in prison, and he wanted to feel good about Christmas again, like he'd felt when he'd been a kid. Mark wasn't sure it was possible to fool himself so completely that he'd feel that good again, that he'd believe in miracles and that the good guys came out ahead, and there was Someone up there who gave a damn about him, but he was going to try.

The sermon ended and they sang, 'O Holy Night'. Was it possible that any night could be holy in hell? Looking out at the others who had come for whatever reasons of their own, Mark saw tears glistening in some eyes, and faces that more often sneered or were lined with anxiety actually shone with hope. Maybe, he thought, maybe even here there could be a sense of peace and hope, at least for these brief moments.

Reverend Morris wished them all a Merry Christmas, and the brief service was over. Mark filed out with the others, and ambled along to the recreation hall. He'd rather just go back to his cell, but he'd probably get labeled as antisocial or something, and he wasn't about to do anything that would cost him one more second of time in prison.

The hall was decorated with some paper bells and a plastic tree with thin strands of silvery tinsel that looked really pathetic, but they couldn't use anything on it, like glass lights or metal or wooden ornaments, or even strings of popcorn, that could be turned into a weapon or a means to commit suicide. Most of the guys were opening gift boxes and cards that had been sent by their families or friends, to show that they were remembered. There were at least a hundred fruit cakes, and twice that many boxes of cookies. Many of them received little things to make their cells a bit more comfortable and cheerful, like pictures of their families, or artwork drawn by their kids.

Mark tried very hard not to begrudge them the small gifts and cards. None of them were to blame for the fact that he'd not received one card, not one damned card, let alone a letter or a gift box. For the first time, Mark felt as if he didn't exist outside of his own imagination – why he'd imagine himself in a place like Quentin, he had no idea. But … how could it be that nobody would write him or send him something, let alone visit? He'd had friends. He wasn't a bad guy. Was he that easy to forget?

Choosing an empty table for four, Mark shuffled a deck of cards and laid out a game of solitaire. He had to be present and accounted for, but he really did not feel all that sociable. A few minutes later, Big Eddy loomed over him, pulled out a chair and dropped into it, seriously straining the metal supports. "So, how was church?" he asked sarcastically.

"We went, we sang, the usual," Mark replied with a shrug, doing his best to ignore the thugs that surrounded them and hoping that they'd all just go away. "It was okay." He played a red five on a black six. As the silence lengthened and at a loss for a conversational gambit, he asked, "So, how'd you learn there is no God?" As soon as he'd uttered the words, he froze, realizing he was probing into personal stuff that was not only none of his business, but that might seriously offend the big guy, and that could be disastrous. "I mean, uh, if you'd like to talk about it," he stammered, and knew with a sickening lurch in his gut that his fear was evident. He tried hard to never play the cowardly wimp, because that could be as dangerous as inciting trouble, but there was no point in playing tough around Big Eddy. Nobody was as tough as him, and everyone inside knew it.

Eddy's eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened. He looked away and, for a moment, Mark hopefully thought he was just going to ignore the question and the idiocy that had gone into asking it in the first place. But then the big man looked back at him, meeting his eyes, and Mark saw old and terrible pain haunting their depths. "My sister," Eddy said, "was the sweetest little kid, like a little angel. Sounds stupid to say that, but she was a good kid, nice to everyone, always sharing whatever she had whether it was a scrap of bread or one of her beat-up second-hand toys. She was younger than me, but she sure liked to boss me around, not mean or anything, but it was real cute, 'cause she was so tiny and I was big for my age. And she was always tryin' to get me to go to Sunday school with her, because she said Jesus loved us, even if nobody else ever did."

Mark felt dread tighten in his chest. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "Something bad happened to her, didn't it?"

Big Eddy nodded slowly. "Yeah," he rasped and looked away. "If'n there was a God, or a Jesus who loved us, neither of 'em woulda ever let somethin' like that happen to her." His voice caught and broke as he said, "She was just a little kid." He swallowed convulsively, and his huge hands fisted on the table. "I found her, what was left of her."

"Oh, God," Mark sighed in misery and, unable to stop himself, he reached out to grip Eddy's forearm. "I'm so, so sorry."

"What do you care?" Eddy demanded, harsh and tough to hide how vulnerable he'd just been, revealing such deep hurt and grief.

"Nobody should ever suffer like that. Nobody," Mark retorted flatly, for once not intimidated. "Least of all a little girl or the brother who found her."

"I don't know how anybody can believe in any kind of God, given the shit that happens in this world," Eddy stated with evident disgust. "They gotta be fools."

"Well, I guess that some don't see it as God's fault that people do bad things," Mark replied with a weary sigh. "But I know what you mean. My Mom was murdered, tortured to death, when I was a kid. And she was like your sister, you know? Kind, sweet, wouldn't hurt a fly, just a good person who did her best." He let out a deep, sorrowful breath and gathered up the cards. "My Mom told me once that if God stopped all the bad stuff from happening, He'd have to take away our free will. So when awful things happen, she said that we have to understand that it's not God's fault, and that it makes Him feel bad for us, but He has to allow us to live our lives and make our own choices, or we're nothing but fancy toys or robots."

"Awful things, huh?" Big Eddy grunted, his brow furrowed as he thought about what Mark had said. "That doesn't explain why people have to burn to death or get killed in earthquakes and floods. But, well, maybe your Mom had a point. There's no need for a Devil, not with what the likes of us do to one another. Not that it matters." He looked around. "Anyone in here has a one-way ticket to Hell anyway. God sure don't give a damn about us."

"Oh, I don't know," Mark said, beginning to think he'd misjudged Eddy and that the guy wasn't as dumb as he looked. With what he hoped was a charming smile that would defuse any animosity Big Eddy might feel toward him for having blundered into this awkward conversation in the first place, he went on, "Jesus was condemned as a criminal and hung on a cross between a thief and a murderer. Or something like that. Anyway, he said he'd see them in Heaven, so I guess there's hope for any of us." He paused a beat, then leaned in, his grin widening as he added, "And they do say that God loves a sinner."

Big Eddy snorted and then started to laugh. "You slay me, Skid," he chuckled, and then he sobered. "Who knows, maybe your Momma was right. You figure she's in Heaven, don't you?"

"Yeah, right along with your little sister," Mark admitted softly, with none of his flimflam pretence. "Happy and safe, and unable to see what's become of us."

The lifer pushed himself to his feet, and gripped Mark's shoulder with a gargantuan hand. "Anybody gives you any trouble, you let me know. No strings, man. Just let me know an' I'll take care of it." And then he and his entourage moved away.

Dumbfounded by the unprecedented offer, Mark watched them set up a game of pool at a table across the room. Big Eddy would be his champion? Without asking for anything in return? No strings? All because Mark believed that little girl was in Heaven? Unaccountably touched, his throat felt thick and his eyes prickled; with that kind of protection, he just might survive long enough to make parole. Sniffing, he swallowed hard and decided he'd spent enough time being sociable that evening, but damned if he didn't feel as if he'd just gotten his own little Christmas miracle.

When he got back to his cell, the guy he shared it with looked up from a letter he was reading. Beside his chair, on the floor, was one of those cardboard boxes that signaled gifts from home.

"Hey, Mark," he said with a warm smile. "Millie says to wish you a Merry Christmas. And, here," he added, reaching into the box with both hands, "she baked some cookies just for you, and, well, my Millie likes to knit, so she made you some socks, too."

Taken completely by surprise by the unexpected gifts, Mark was momentarily speechless. Accepting the box of cookies, and the handmade navy blue socks, he just stared at them, scarcely able to believe that they were for him, that he hadn't been forgotten after all.

"She makes great cookies," Barney said. "My Millie's a terrific cook."

Looking at the man who had shown him the ropes and taught him the basic lessons of survival in the big house, Mark asked, "Will Millie be coming to see you tomorrow?"

"She sure will. Never misses a Christmas, or Easter, or birthday, or anniversary ... or every other weekend, for that matter. She's a good woman."

Mark nodded in complete agreement; she had to be pretty special to be so kind to a complete stranger. "Would you … would you thank her for me, and tell her that I hope I'll get to meet her someday? And wish her a really Merry Christmas for me?"

"Will do," Barney agreed, and went back to reading the letter from his Millie.

Mark opened the box of cookies and, taking one, he lay down on his bunk. One bite was enough to prove that Barney hadn't been exaggerating about his wife's ability to cook. The shortbread virtually melted in his mouth, and he closed his eyes, the better to savor the wonderful texture and rich flavor. A few minutes later, the buzzer went to alert the inmates that the lights would soon be going out.

His cellmate gathered up his box of treasures and put it on the little metal desk they shared, and then he climbed up onto his bunk. The lights went out, leaving only the muted glow of the red emergency lights.

"Merry Christmas, Mark," Barney offered as he turned over and drew up his blanket.

"Merry Christmas, Barney," Mark replied with warm sincerity, and was surprised to know he really meant it, that even in San Quentin there could be Christmas and it could be good.

_Finis_


End file.
